Page 28 of Reckless
The tussle has my tightly wrapped scarf shifting atop my head, threatening to expose a strand of damning silver hair. I back away, panting as I adjust the cloth around my face. After three nights, it’s a miracle I’ve managed to stay anonymous.
Maybe it’s the thrill that keeps me coming back for more. That, and the money.
A fist connects with my ribs, forcing the breath from my lungs. I stumble from the impact, sputtering through the fabric around my face as I try to catch my breath. Slick stalks toward me, grinning in response to the shouting crowd.
I scowl at the sound. He’s a fan favorite after all, no reason to take it personally. It’s a shame the crowd can’t see the girl of nearly eighteen who’s been kicking the asses of men twice her size and age. Then again, attention is the last thing I need, which makes these fights all the more dangerous. I need to remain the faceless rookie, a passing piece of intrigue to fuel the whispered gossip on the streets.
But I don’t intend to leave. Or lose.
No, I’ve made more from winning these matches than I ever did in a month of thieving back in Ilya. Even with Adena selling her clothes, we never could have managed enough to afford real room and board. A twinge of pain shoots through me at the thought, though it has nothing to do with the injuries I’ve earned. It pierces me right through the heart that aches without her—the one that broke the day she did.
For you, Adena. All for you.
Slick is persistent, raining down blows I barely avoid. He clips the side of my head with his fist, and stars burst in my vision. I’m sluggish. Tired and…
Starving. The things I would do for an orange right now.
I shake my head, trying to clear the murky mind inside.
Focus now. Food later.
Slick has thoroughly worn me out. I’m trying to get a read on him, trying to tap into thatPsychicability of mine and find the best way to quickly take him down.
Father would be disappointed at how long it’s taking me to read him.
He blocks my jab before barreling into me, pushing me hard against the cage. The loose wire rattles, and I barely register the chants of the crowd beyond.
“Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!”
Right. I almost forgot I’m ahim.
My baggy clothing and covered face have helped to keep my identity to that of the male species. I would be slightly offended if that wasn’t exactly what I wanted.
Focus.
He’s pressing me against the rusty cage, winding back a giant arm to strike me. When the fist comes flying toward my face, I twist to the side, watching it deliver a blow to the metal where my head once was.
He only fights with his upper body.
Sure enough, he cocks his arm again, intent on only hitting his mark with a fist. With that knowledge in mind, my foot finds the inside of his knee, kicking hard enough to send a jolt up my leg. Slick bites down a scream as he drops to one knee before me, clutching what is likely a dislocated kneecap.
A collective gasp echoes through the crowd at the sight of theirchampion so vulnerable. Those gasps grow into something much louder when I drive my knee into his gut.
Once. Twice—
Suddenly I’m being thrown to the ground.
He’s grabbed my leg and ungracefully thrown me off my feet before swinging my body onto the barely padded floor of the ring. I stagger to my feet, bones aching as I charge the still-kneeling man. Then I’m using his propped, uninjured leg as a step stool before he has a moment to react. Swinging my legs over his shoulders, I hook a knee around his neck and use my momentum to send us crashing to the ground.
Not my most graceful takedown.
I brace for the impact, keeping my leg locked against his neck, squeezing his throat. He grapples blindly behind him, his hands flailing in the hopes of hitting something of importance. I take the opportunity to catch one of his wrists, pulling it hard behind his head and pressing it down to my chest.
This time he does scream. Though it’s strangled, thanks to my leg still choking the sound from his throat.
His elbow strains as I pull his arm down unnaturally, hyperextending the joint. His excessive sweat has me at the disadvantage as I struggle to keep my grip from slipping. I hold him there, panting as he writhes, my own back sweaty against the rough mat beneath us. The crowd closes in around the cage, rattling the metal and shouting things I don’t have the energy to process at the moment.
It took Slick nine seconds to smack the mat aggressively with his free hand, succumbing to his defeat.
